


Little Secret, Little Doll

by adenium (peccolia)



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location, Gen, based on a certain line of dialogue within the game, or original technician character anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peccolia/pseuds/adenium
Summary: A fleeting, fickle interest in a new toy never ends well.(Sister Location ficlet)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to what is my first and will not be my last fnaf fic bc I have fallen to the dark side (but damn if this series isn't fascinating) and Ballora needs more love. Can be read as a haunted animatronic or sentient AI and isn't technically canon compliant. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 

She was her secret.

Her little doll.

She liked to think her doll came to this place just for her—even if it was a lie.

Because she wasn’t alone; there were others she visited, too. This was what these people called a “job.” Just as they were there to dance and to sing, among…other things, this was what her doll was here for. To fix.

But her doll never fixed _them_ because there was nothing to fix— _they_ were fine. They all worked just fine. And some, far too well. Some she’d rather hide her little doll away from. Far away…

For her, however…one thing never quite worked.

Her eyes.

The eyelid flaps always stuttered and stalled in their metal tracks and sometimes jammed completely, leaving her blind to faces, to the world, unless she released each little faceplate to get rid of those stubborn eyelids. And, really, what child wanted to see all the sharp and winding metal bits exposed? It was an ugly face, on the inside.

But her doll didn’t think so.

“Let’s see if we can fix these today, huh, Ballora?” her doll would say each time the gallery vent opened, always in gentle, muted tones left over from a warning to not make a sound in this place—one she ignored just as she ignored the orders to shock them (never needed to; there was no reason for them to leave the stage yet). But she wouldn’t attack. Not her little doll, no.

She could tell she didn’t quite know what she was doing (they never did). She knew there was a chance she could do more harm than help (they always did). But the simple act in itself was a blessing—that someone _wanted_ to help. To try to fix something that would likely never work.

She’d long since come to accept it. They all did.

They were locked away down here, forgotten. They would never leave. Never see a child.

(Only one ever had; yet with the way it turned out, it wouldn’t happen again.)

“You’ll see one day, Ballora,” her doll would promise as she pressed each small button to release the faceplates and flood her world with light, with color, with _life_.

And with her little doll.

Always a little different, always new—her little doll always wore that same olive drab jumpsuit with a crude, capitalized acronym stitched in white  across the breast, but that was the only thing. Her hair was never worn the same way twice, sometimes slicked back into a tight ponytail, sometimes in curls, sometimes loose, braided, hanging over one shoulder—sometimes hidden away under a hat. Her skin was painted—cheeks, lips, eyes (she liked it best when they were tinted blue, like hers) but sometimes not, sometimes blank like a fresh canvas.

She was never one for _pretending_ , yet she liked to pretend she was the one who dressed her doll up, changed her looks each night. Even if it was a lie.

“Y’know,” her doll would start a conversation like this at times, almost in response, no matter how one-sided, while picking at poking at the eyelids and lashes of her exoskeleton with tiny tools. “If it were up to me, I’d fix your outfit, too. Mostly the top part. Not exactly…kid-friendly, I’d say. Beautiful, but…yeah. Full-coverage leotards are a thing in ballet. Wonder if anyone ever told management that little tidbit…”

Her doll didn’t think she was ugly. Her doll thought she was _beautiful._ Even with her insides exposed to the world, teeth like needles bared, all blunt metal and wide, hard plastic eyes. And the wires—all the wires.

There was no one else in the world as kind as her little doll.

There was no one else in the world who deserved her little doll.

Her little doll belonged here. With her.

Wasn’t that how it should be? As soon as she’d decided her little doll belonged to her, she shouldn’t have let her go.

Her little doll should stay. Forever.

For all they’d been through—for all _she’d_ been through—didn’t she deserve as much?

Something clicked.

Her little doll’s tools stopped moving—a smile slowly lifted the corners of her lips as her eyes brightened, and, slowly, she shut the faceplates, snapping them back into place firmly, but careful.

“Ballora, can you try blinking for me?”

She blinked, eyelid flaps moving smoothly, fluid.

Fixed.

_No._

Without something to fix, her little doll would never return.

“All in a good day’s work, I’d say. You look great!” Her little doll packed her tools away, flicked off the headlamp strapped to her forehead—ready to leave.

The vent was close. Too close.

She moved. Rose to her full height en pointe, arms out. Music notes stirred in the shadows, Minireena feet skittered across the tiles—

And blocked her little doll’s path.

She grabbed her little doll—held her close. Through the screaming, through the thrashing, the crunching—until she stilled. Quiet. Obedient. Like a little doll should be.

Her doll’s face was painted differently, now. In bright red, streaked across her skin like ugly ribbons.

Her doll didn’t speak again.

And when her doll no longer moved, no longer spoke, she was…quite boring. Only a limp ragdoll.

What a silly thing.

She dropped her doll; cast her aside for the Minireenas to drag away, through the vent, to wherever they and the Bidybabs took broken little dolls and secrets that were no longer desired, no longer loved. 

She missed her little doll—even if it was a lie.

* * *

_So, funny story: a dead body was found in this vent once._

_M’kay, so, not that funny, but it’s a story…_


End file.
